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Derek Hale sat in his plush leather chair in his elegant wood-accented office and stared at the newspaper article that had just made any of his future political ambitions go up in smoke. That headline cost him, before he’d even started it, his campaign for a federal representative seat, probably his chance at reelection to the current state representative seat he’d held for the last five years, and when he’d walked into the office this morning he’d seen three of his four staff members polishing their resumes. Derek rested his elbows on his desk and dropped his face into his hands, concentrating on breathing and ignoring the headline that probably burned his life to the ground.
HALE IMPLICATED IN GAMBLING SCANDAL
He rubbed his palms against his eyes before straightening. He didn’t have time to mope. The list of things to work on damage control was fairly long, starting with a call to his lawyer. This was the kind of scandal that brought indictments and jail time and, if he was lucky, not his own. He snatched the phone off the receiver before changing his mind. This should be a call that wasn’t using public resources – just in case – so he switched to his cell instead. He had Whittemore’s number on speed dial there anyway.
“James Whittemore’s office, this is Angela, how may I help you?”
James Whittemore owned the largest law firm in the region and tended to bring on all the pretensions that included. He’d passed the trait on to his son, Jackson, whom at twenty-two was ready to begin law school. Derek had met the boy a few times over the years and thought he was a jackass and hoped the kid didn’t have any ambition to go into politics. Jackson would fit right in with most of the career politicians in Sacramento (soulless, heartless opportunists) but Derek was of the mind that California, America, and politics more generally needed less career politicians and more people who cared.
“Angela, it’s Derek Hale.” He ignored her inhale at his name. “Is he in?”
“I’ll put you right through,” Angela said. “He’s been expecting your call.” The phone clicked to music while Angela transferred the call.
Shit, he thought and cast another dire look at the newspaper. He was young enough he could find another career, at least, now that this one had just crashed and burned.
“Derek,” Whittemore’s confident voice came over the line. “I knew you’d been calling when you saw the news.”
Derek sighed. “I invested in my uncle’s company,” he told Whittemore. “But other than giving him the money, I had absolutely no connection to what he was doing. I also invested eight years ago, when I was still in college, so there’s no way it could be traced to public funds.”
“Then you’re safe,” Whittemore assured him. “At least legally speaking. I’m sure you know better than I do the political ramifications of what your uncle did.”
Derek rubbed his forehead. “Yes. I’m going to have to make a public statement distancing myself quickly, Mr. Whittemore. What kind of documentation might be best?”
“Any type of receipts of transactions regarding the initial investment. As a stockholder, meeting minutes or reports. Did you go to any?”
“No. I didn’t have any interest in what he was doing. I just invested because he was my uncle,” he said a little exasperated. Uncle Peter had been the one who’d advised Derek to go into economics to prepare for a political career in college and offered the chance to invest some of his inheritance as a way to dip his toes into “real economic training.”
Another look at the paper and the words entrepreneur Peter Hale admits bribing officials to expedite building his casino and snorted softly. He wondered if this had been the sort of “economic training” Uncle Peter had anticipated he’d get.
“Then just send over any official press release to my office to vet before you pass it on.” Whittemore paused and Derek could feel the hesitation before he continued. “You might consider hiring a media consultant for the short-term. I can get you some names of people we’ve worked with before.”
Derek considered the offer before shaking his head. “That’s… probably a mistake right now. The best move is probably to be as transparent as possible and if I’ve got some PR hack running the show I might lose standing.”
Whittemore made a considering noise in the back of his throat. “Your call, Derek. Keep me updated, okay?”
“I will. Thanks,” he said, unable to keep his shortness out of his voice before dropping his cell onto his desk. Immediately his office phone rang and he winced as it continued to ring. During business hours, his secretary, Olivia, was supposed to answer and direct calls. If it was ringing through that meant she was either deluged with calls or had left her desk.
He sighed and, on the eighth ring, picked up. “Derek Hale.”
“Ah, Representative Hale!” A bright, female voice said and he recognized it instantly. Lydia Martin had been a rookie reporter for the L.A. Times – a job she’d mostly managed through sheer genius and nepotism – when he’d first run for his seat. They probably never would have mixed if it weren’t for the debate that sprung up over the protected lands in his district. Derek, who had grown up in a house just outside of the Beacon Hills Preserve, had favored conservation while his opponent had wanted to sell the land parcel by parcel to make the city money, especially given the lake and newly built city reservoir. Someone in the green movement had caught wind of it, saw a picture of twenty-five year old Derek debating his forty-seven year old balding rich business owner and saw publicity gold. As uncomfortable with being showcased for his looks rather than his political views made him, Derek figured it was the lesser of two evils. He was a moderate running in a fairly Republican district against a staunch business-oriented Republican. He needed all the help he could get. So he’d traded on his looks, the prestige and history of the Hale name in the region, and what his campaign manager (and annoying older sister) liked to call his “tragic backstory” to get elected and hang on to his seat in close races.
Lydia Martin, still trying to make her bones at the Times, had caught sight of one of the adds supporting his campaign as “environmentally friendly” and called arrange an interview. Laura had given him her go-ahead and Derek spent an hour on the phone somehow talking more about his past than his politics. He still didn’t know how Martin had done it.
Still, the story she’d written had been fantastic. It put Derek on the statewide map, politically speaking, and Lydia had earned herself a raise and a move to the political desk (out of lifestyle). “Ms. Martin,” he said into the phone, trying to hold back a sigh. “My answer is two words: no comment.”
“Did you know I invested in your uncle’s stock?” Martin’s voice was smooth and sly and Derek groaned.
“No. I didn’t need to know, I don’t want to know, I’m just a shareholder. I gave him $500 eight years ago.”
“Funny,” she mused, her tone sharpening. “Because the gaming commission paperwork I’m looking at for his casino lists you as the majority stockholder.”
“Then it’s the wrong paperwork,” Derek snapped and rummaged around his desk for a pen and a piece of paper. He needed information. A lot of information. If Peter had… done something to increase Derek’s share in the last eight years he hadn’t paid attention, he was probably fucked. “Or you’re lying to get a quote. Either way, no comment.” He waited a few seconds before slamming the receiver back down and snatching his cell phone. He was going to need to call Whittemore back, then Laura and get her on this, and at some point Derek would have to communicate with his uncle to find out what exactly was going on with this clusterfuck on his end.
There was a brief knock on the door before it slid open. “Representative Hale,” Olivia slid the door open slowly. “You’ve got a visitor from the Governor’s office. He’s your nine o’clock.”
He scrubbed his hand over his face, ignoring the catch of his callouses over the hair he didn’t bother to shave this morning and nodded. “It’s fine, Olivia. Cancel everything else though.”
She nodded and stepped out of the way just in time for a tall, lanky younger man to step in. Derek had met Stilinski once or twice, mostly during the governor’s campaign. Scott McCall had run an election with the optimistic values Derek reluctantly admired but was far too pragmatic to endorse himself. He’d even managed to run on a platform built around educational change, which was an interesting political move at least until you remembered McCall had been a high school teacher before he’d decided to run. Grabbing the support of the California Teachers Association early on, the union endorsements he’d picked up, his plain-talking genuine style and his Latino background had gained him popular support despite his youth and relative political inexperience. Derek mostly respected the overall goals McCall had though he thought McCall’s actual fiscal plans were shit; the man had great dreams for overhauling the state’s education system but no real idea how to pay for it. McCall had taken office three months ago and Derek had found himself voting against most of McCall-sponsored or endorsed bills because the money just wasn’t there and until McCall had the votes to arrange a tax increase – which he would never get – Derek had a feeling they’d end up on opposing sides of the aisle, even if they were both nominally in the same party.
Early on in the race, there’d been some speculation that McCall would ask the man standing in front of Derek to be his lieutenant governor but McCall had, mid-way through the race, settled on the more conservative Allison Argent. Argent had the political and financial connections McCall didn’t and was a feminist favorite, known for supporting tax-breaks for women-owned small businesses. They’d made a formidable team, sweeping up and down the state, with Stilinski standing nearby often arranging new ads, posters, corralling volunteers, writing speeches. He managed to stay in the background more, after Argent was brought on, but the few times he’d met up with McCall during the prospective governor’s campaign, Derek had definitely noticed Stilinski. The man’s energy and direction had kept the entire campaign moving and as McCall’s campaign manager Stilinski had been responsible for most of the genius moves that got McCall elected. If Derek hadn’t thought he was too loyal – and Laura would kill him for it – he’d considered asking Stilinski to run Derek’s campaign for the U.S. House.
“Representative Hale,” Stilinski said, extending a hand to shake. “I’m guessing this isn’t a good time?” His eyes drifted over to the open newspaper on Derek’s desk.
“Not really,” he agreed, taking Stilinski’s hand. It was surprisingly rough with callouses. Derek gestured toward an open chair and retreated to his desk. “What can I do for the governor?”
Stilinski dropped down into the seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Not so much the governor as me. I want you to head the new education unemployment task force they passed in the last veto session.”
Derek stared at Stilinski. Then he looked down at the newspaper on his desk. Then he looked back at Stilinski and raised his eyebrows.
Stilinski laughed and relaxed back into the chair, a sheepish smile crossing his face. “Scott – the governor, I mean – actually wanted me to do it,” he explained. “But I’m juggling too many balls as it is.” Derek took in Stilinski’s mussed hair, wrinkled suit, and the blue-ish circles under his eyes. “This is me delegating.”
“I’m not on the education committee,” he pointed out. Derek’s assignments were the committees on Water, Parks, and Wildlife, Natural Resources, and Public Employees, Retirement, and Social Security. The last was the worst and he was fairly sure he’d been added to that line up by majority leader Victoria Argent out of spite. “I don’t know anything about,” he paused trying to remember the specific bill. “HB451.”
Stilinski snorted. “You remembered the bill number; that’s good enough for me.”
Derek glared at him and picked up the newspaper. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? It’ll look awfully like support from the governor’s office.” He dropped the paper in the trash.
Stilinski waved away the objection and smiled easily. “I know Scott’s been a little hard on you in the press,” he said lightly. Derek resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “A little” was an understatement. After Derek had spoken out against one of the McCall initiated bills two weeks ago – and managed to sway a few key votes his way while doing it – McCall had been holding up Derek as everything that was wrong with modern politics. “He just hasn’t quite separated ‘opposition’ from ‘bad,’ yet. It’s a thing I’ve been working on with him. Me, on the other hand, I know you’re only voting things down because you’re concerned about the money.” He shrugged a little. “Not because you’re morally opposed to what we’re proposing.”
“And you think now is the best time to give me more responsibility.”
“I think you could be a good ally, if you and Scott stop butting heads over costs and start working together. I also think you need every bit of goodwill you can get right now and this task force is basically a do-nothing show for the teaching unions. A friend in Washington tells me the NEA is already working with the Department of Labor for adjuncts on the problem since that’s really where any change is going to have to be made to fix the law.” Derek felt a stab of annoyance at the reminder that even after his hard work, Derek was only playing on the statewide level, while McCall and Stilinski – three years younger than him and with McCall’s only real political experience was two years as an appointee in the Labor and Workforce Development Agency – were nationally important. “It’s a whole thing about the language around reasonable assurance and –“ Stilinski stopped, waving a hand. “The point is this will gain you union attention and let you break into a voting block you’ve had trouble with in the past. Union members vote. Union members volunteer for their candidates. This is a chance to make yourself a candidate.”
Derek studied the other man suspiciously, not really trusting the smile on his face. “Mr. Stilinski –“
“Stiles,” he broke in. “Mr. Stilinski is my dad. Call me Stiles.”
“Stiles,” Derek corrected himself through gritted teeth. “What are you getting out of this?”
“I just told you: someone to pick up some of my slack and whom I hope can become a real ally.” Stiles – and wasn’t that the most ridiculous nickname Derek had ever heard -- continued to smile easily, a show of teeth that make Derek uncomfortable mostly because it didn’t seem to be one of those fake political smiles he was used to getting in Sacramento.
Derek thinks of Lydia Martin’s phone call, and the calls he had to make to his sister and his uncle, and his office staff polishing resumes, and shakes his head. “I can’t right now –“
“Take a week,” Stiles cut him off, waving a hand in the air loosely and standing. “And then call me with your answer.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. “Here, it’s got my cell on it. Call me anytime.” Stiles chuckled quietly. “Being on-call 24/7 is sort of my job.” He offered the card to Derek like it was some sort of peace offering.
The worst part was Derek knew he couldn’t afford not to take it. Their fingers brushed lightly as he snapped the card out of Stiles’s hand and nodded. “A week,” he agreed.
Stiles clasped him on the shoulder and grinned. “I’m thinking this might be the beginning of a beautiful partnership.”